


Coming Up Roses

by Ameiko



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Blindness, F/M, Mental Illness, Stories of Us Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameiko/pseuds/Ameiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the death of her family on the Titanic, Annie Cresta has hidden herself away inside her home. It isn't until she meets a handsome stranger stranger through the garden gates that she begins to feel alive again. Stories of Us tie-in</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Up Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was originally posted as part of the Fandom4LLS compilation and Thank you to everyone who donated. Also HUGE thank you to my betas Chelzie and Modernlifeofash and to JennaGill who helped get my creative mojo going.

 

 

Coming Up Roses

Part 1/ 4

 

 

They say that I'm crazy, and I suppose, in a manner of speaking, that I am. What kind of sane woman refuses to leave her house for nearly seven long years? Most women of twenty-five are married with children by now, pushing prams in the park. Instead, I'm locked up in this house by my own hand, never daring to go farther than the back gardens with my aging governess, Miss Magdalena MacGowans—known as Mags to those who loved her, and a library full of books as my only companions. From the moment the door closed behind me after my parents' and sisters' funeral, I knew that I couldn't leave.

My father bought the house in 1902 as a sign that the Crestas were moving up in the world. Ten years later, he purchased first class tickets on the finest vessel ever made for our return trip from our English holiday as a sign that we had reached the top. I don't remember a single thing about that ship—not how large or grand it was nor the moment it hit the iceberg. All I know for sure is that I survived by swimming in the frigid waters until I was plucked out by one of the lifeboats, while the rest of my family sank to their icy graves. I didn't speak for three weeks after that. I couldn't find the will to say anything until I arrived here that day.

I remember staring at the doors and imagining that a great wall of icy ocean water was about to crash upon the house. My heart began to race in my chest and my knees suddenly couldn't hold me. Mags was at my side instantly, crooning in her crackling and slurred voice, but nothing she could say would make me safe. Thoughts whirled inside of my head so quickly that I suddenly felt ill from keeping them all in. And then I heard a voice so foreign that I barely recognized it as my own.

“Lock it, Mags. Lock the door NOW!”

That was how the first part of my life ended. 

Fittingly enough, the second part of my life began just after a funeral as well. Mrs. Dellworth died on a Sunday in late February of 1915. By the very following Thursday, her nephew had sold the house. The old woman had been cantankerous on her very best days and dreadful on her worst. Mags told me that she'd said six Hail Mary's for being glad she was gone, and I doubt her nephew said even one as he counted the money in his bank account from the sale of the house and all that came with it. I watched him from the window on the day he ushered in the new owner with more than a bit of curiosity.

My new neighbor was the handsomest man I had ever seen in my life. Tall and blond with a smile that not even my dirty bedroom window could dull, he was an Adonis to my eyes. I hurried and wiped my sleeve across the glass hoping to get a better look at him, but as I did, he put on his hat and strode to the front door of his new residence. Before he did though, I swear for a moment, he looked up at me. As simple as that, Mad Annie Cresta fell in love with the unlikeliest of men: Mr. Matthew John Mellark.

Growing up, I can remember my father talking about the pitiable fate of men who became addicted to liquor. He'd talk about how sad it was to see a man longing more for a drop of whiskey than for the Divine Salvation. I wonder what he would have said if he had seen me hungering for just a glance of Matthew—oh yes, in my mind I always called him by his Christian name. What would Daddy have said if he had seen me perched at the window, biting my lips until they bled with the anticipation that maybe one day he would look back into my window again.

Weeks passed and I began imagining a courtship between us. My dear, sweet Matthew would appear on my doorstep with a bouquet and a box of my favorite chocolates and whisk me away in his shiny red car to the museum or to the picture shows. He was always as romantic as Paris and honorable as Hector. When he whispered in my ear, his voice was as passionate as Lancelot's but as true as Arthur's. The only time he ever brought a frown to my face was when the dreams faded and left me with the loneliness of reality. I think these dreams brought me to a new low. Mags would see me in in my window and shake her head, muttering to herself in Gaelic as she left me to my fantasy world.

The world outside began to thaw by mid-March, and the warmer temperatures brought with them a welcome surprise. Matthew was an avid gardener. He began planting his dear roses just after the last frost of the year. Dozens of grafted bushes were brought in, and he planted every single one of them with a loving hand. I saw more of him than I'd ever dreamed possible. He watched over his plants the way a shepherd would his flock. It didn't seem to enter his mind that he might dirty his expensive trousers by crouching in the mud to inspect an oncoming bud nor that he should send a servant out to cover the plants from the coldest mornings. Those rose bushes saw more tenderness than many wives. With all my heart, I wished to be loved like that.

If spring that year showed me love, summer showed me passion. With the stifling heat of season upon us, I ventured outside. A high fence of wrought iron and wide brick columns separated our properties, giving me just enough cover to slip outside unseen by the object of my affection. I could finally get close enough to see that his eyes were dark brown, rather than the blue I had pictured and that he had a small scar just below his lower lip. Much as a soldier would strip his armor, the heat of late June soon prompted Matthew to strip off his shirt. From afar, Matthew seemed like an ethereal Adonis, but up close he was as flesh and blood man as Cleopatra's Anthony had been. I could see the sweat dripping down his neck and chest, and the thought of how warm his flesh must be sent a wave over me that almost had me tripping over myself. I should have been overwhelmed by shame at my lustful thoughts, but I was more excited by the unfamiliar emotion. It felt normal to want a man in that way. It felt normal to want _this_ man in that way. And so the years passed with me watching through fence posts and window panes as the man I fancied myself in love with went about his life, never knowing that I existed.

It was funny how little I actually knew about Matthew. Though Mags routinely talked to his housekeeper, she rarely volunteered any information and I rarely asked. I was more content to know only my fantasy beau rather than the real person living right next door. It was easier that way. If he wasn't real, then I was doing absolutely nothing wrong when I spied on him. Even more, a figment of my imagination couldn't hurt me—couldn't make me feel loss. Or so I thought.

The day was quite frigid when I saw Matthew's car out in the drive being filled with all sorts of luggage from inside. I watched curiously from the parlor window, careful to hide myself behind the curtains. From the look of things, I gathered he was going away for a long time, but February was hardly the best time to take a trip. And his roses! If he was gone when the last blow of old man winter's breath hit, who would plant the new bushes and tend to the buds? I bit at my nail nervously as his car pulled away.

“Ye won't see him for a wee while, lassie, but it's nothin' to be fretting over,” Mags told me as she hobbled into the room.

I hurried to help her into her favorite chair and arranged a thick blanket over her lap. “So then it's just a business trip,” I assumed, still wondering at the sheer amount of luggage he had taken with him.

“I wish it were so, Annie-lass. I wish it were,” the elder muttered sadly. “The youngest of the Mellark sons threw in his lot with the army and was gravely injured. Mrs. Paylor tells me that he just might die from his wounds. Their father wants his remaining sons close at hand should the sad news come, it would seem.”

“How terrible!” I cried as my gut clenched at the memory of my own dead sisters.

Mags shook her head sadly. “Such a waste of life. Men tearing each other to bits o'er nothing. Generation after generation, they learn little or nothing from the last war besides how to wreak more havoc 'pon the world.”

I heard the car start and watched as Matthew drove away. “Let's just pray the young man lives.”

Thankfully, our prayers were answered. Matthew returned the very first week of March, and Mrs. Paylor told Mags that the youngest brother, Peter, had survived. Even better, he was well enough to be brought back to the United States to recover—though it was implied that the latter took quite a few greased palms to achieve. However, things didn't seem to get any easier for Matthew once his brother was safely on this side of the Atlantic. He disappeared from my sight for months on end to help Peter recover at the family's cabin, leaving his roses in the care of a gardener.

Not since my first weeks after shutting the doors have I felt so aimless. I did my best to distract myself with all of the spring cleaning and by sewing, but thimbles and dust bunnies didn't hold my interest the way Matthew did. Mags kept trying to use his absence as a way to draw me out. Our own garden, she pointed out numerous times, was in sad shape, and with no one constantly laboring away on the other side of the fence there was no reason for me to fear being seen. It took weeks, but I finally gave into her nagging and went to work. As it turned out, pulling weeds was therapeutic for me. Attacking the years upon years’ worth of wild growth gave me a way to keep my mind and body occupied. In a way, it felt like I was waking up. My own two hands had brought about a visible change in something for the first time in years. Though nothing in comparison to the wonders of Matthew's garden, our little courtyard no longer looked like a jungle, and I was even brave enough to have Mags arrange for some flowers to be delivered. I think it was telling when Matthew began spending more time at his home again in late June that I was more disappointed than glad over his return.

Matthew's renewed presence brought about a gentle dance between the two gardens. Though I still watched him hungrily while he labored in his, I made absolutely certain to never be working when he was about. I had no intention of letting my new flowers wither and die, but I didn't think I could bear to be seen. I found myself toiling away in the dirt just as the first rays of sun were hitting the petals or carrying around the watering can late in the evening. It was on one such occasion that I was almost caught for the first time.

I had just begun filling the pail when I heard a car arrive in the front drive. That in itself wasn't an unusual event, but then I heard Matthew's pleasant baritone which was soon joined by other voices—one of which was notably female—and the sounds were drawing closer. I listened for a moment longer than I should have. Before I could think to hide, I spotted figures moving around the sidewalk. My heart pounded in my chest and my body froze as two unfamiliar faces came into view alongside Matthew. There was a blond haired man in a wheelchair—who I assumed could only be Peter Mellark—and a thin woman with a long, dark braid. Instantly, I assumed when the woman moved toward the roses lining the fence that I had been caught, but instead she made some comment to the men. I was too relieved to listen to the exchange, and took the opportunity to crouch down behind the bird bath.

It took quite a bit of pleading with Mags to convince her to go ask Mrs. Paylor about the newcomers. The man in the wheelchair was indeed Peter Mellark—as I had already surmised—and he had come to Pittsburgh to undergo some sort of classes for the blind. I was mildly surprised to hear that he was newly wed to the pretty brunette. Mags went suddenly very thin lipped when she reported that Mrs. Paylor suspected it was union born of greed more than infatuation.

“O'course, I am not the one to judge,” she noted with a sigh as she sipped her morning tea. “Who is to say the boy didn't find the dear love o' his life?”

“Mrs. Paylor, it seems,” I said wryly.

“He deserves a bit of happiness. Everyone does,” Mags added, eying me meaningfully.

I squirmed underneath her faded blue gaze. Recently, she had taken to prodding me more and more to try even a step into the front lawn or to talk to the grocer's boy who made deliveries to the house. Even though she meant well, I couldn't give voice to all the reasons that those things weren't possible for me. My fears were irrational even in my own mind, but that didn't make them any less real. Even the thought of someone who wasn't “safe” seeing me was enough to make me physically ill.

“Like you and Ian?” I asked, hoping to throw her into a tale of her long dead husband and their romance.

“Or like your parents,” she countered.

The thought of my parents felt like a cold bucket of water being tossed in my face. I blinked and quickly pushed away from the breakfast table. Picking at the broken skin around my fingers, I brought up the first new topic that came to mind. “Did you see that Mrs. Smith across the street painted her shutters a lovely blue?”

Mags wouldn't be deterred by shutters.

“Your mother swore to me when she met your father that it was like the ol' Greek myth of findin' her other half. I swore that she'd just taken leave o' her good senses.”

“Oh, and did you read any of the new books that came in last week?” I asked, praying that the panic in my voice would be enough to stop her.

“Ach, and your dear father... Ne'er was a man as stodgy as he, but he did love his flighty lass. In fact...”

“Stop it!” I cried, hugging my waist and resisting the urge to crawl into a ball.

Mags pushed a curl behind my ear. “You'll have to talk about them some time, darlin'.”

“Not today,” I whispered.

“You've been saying that for many long years now. I don't know how many more you'll have my ol' bones creaking about the house. If you don't soon start living, Annie-lass, you'll find yourself at the pearly gates with nothin' but a blank page with St. Peter. And what then? Waste is a sin, too, and your father'd be the first to say it,” she reminded me with a sad smile.

Mags’ words hadn't fallen on deaf ears. I wanted so much to live, but there was just too much at risk—or at least, it felt like there was. The world outside meant loss. It meant pain and death and a thousand other things I couldn't face. Sure, I knew that there were probably a million good things for every bad one. Somehow, that didn't seem to alleviate any of my fears.

“I should check on my flowers while everyone is still sleeping over there,” I said quietly.

I slipped outside undetected by anyone other than a fat squirrel and a couple of birds. My eyes and ears were on constant alert for any activity from beyond the fence as I filled my watering can and gathered my gardening gloves and hat. The peacefulness of the garden soon lulled me into a trance like state as I weeded and watered. My beautiful posies didn't want more from me than I could give. They weren't disappointed in me. They didn't judge. It was easy for me to love them. I even found myself talking to them softly.

“Well,” I said to a rather devoured looking petunia, “I'm sorry to say it looks like the rabbits must have had a feast of you.”

I was plucking away the damaged, dying buds as I heard steps coming down the walk. This time, I was able to shove myself behind one of the brick columns before I was seen.

“You shouldn't flirt with Mrs. Mellark,” one man chided.

A second let out a smooth laugh. “She practically fell right into it. I don't owe the Mellarks anything.”

“But you do owe _me_ something. And you owe the school,” the first said with a very indignant sounding harrumph. “The funds they've promised us could go a very long way. We'd be able to offer more to our students. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

“Of course, the welfare of the kids means nothing at all to me. I'm only teaching to get rich enough to buy myself that yacht I've always wanted.”

“Finnick!”

“All right. I'll play nicely with my new playmates. Is that what you've been dying to hear?” the second man—Finnick —asked.

“It'll do.”

There was a short silence, and I almost could hope that the thundering of my heart had masked their retreating steps. Feeling brave, I leaned over carefully to peer out through one of the larger rose bushes. The two men were still there. The man I assumed was the first to speak was an older gentleman who was admiring the yellow primroses that flanked a stone bench. He soon confirmed my suspicions when he began to ramble on about the roses his departed mother used to plant. With my curiosity about him mostly sated, I turned my eyes to his younger companion.

Finnick was standing on the walk looking vaguely toward where his friend stood. From my vantage point, I noted a very refined profile with a straight blade of a nose and high cheek bones. His features were much softer than Matthew's, though far from feminine. Curls framed his face in shades that varied from pure golden to a light brown, giving him an almost romantic look. Of course, he wasn't as handsome as my dearest Matthew was, but he intrigued me. It struck me as odd just then that Finnick was holding a cane in his right hand without actually leaning on it. I inched closer to the bushes to see a bit more and then it happened.

A fallen twig from the oak that stood in our backyard snapped beneath me. The sound was fairly subtle in reality, but to my ears, it sounded like a shot. Staying perfectly still, I prayed that the men on the other side of the fence hadn't heard. Finnick's head cocked to the side suddenly, reminding me of a cat that had heard a mouse's feet shuffle.

“Go on ahead back to the car,” he said to the older man. “If you're really going to make me come out here every day, I might as well get the sidewalks mapped out at the very least.”

I watched the older man do as he was asked, and added the full list of pagan gods I knew of to my prayers that the ordeal was at an end. Flicking his cane to and fro before him, Finnick took a few steps farther into the garden. Only then did it occur to me why a young, seemingly healthy man would carry a cane if not to lean on. He was blind. Horrible as it may be, I was glad that he couldn't see. It seemed, for the moment, that I would remain no more than a specter. I let out a silent thank you to whichever deity had answered my prayers. I edged to my feet as Finnick moved farther toward the opposite wall of the garden and crept one foot over another.

“Hide and seek maybe a fun game, but let me assure you it's one that I _always_ win.”

Cold panic flooded me as I turned back toward Finnick. Though his half open eyes stared somewhere off into the distance, he had seen me. His cock-sure grin was probably the most terrifying thing I had seen since closing the doors all those years before. If I were braver, I would have managed a polite excuse, but I was far from brave. I turned on my heel and ran as fast as I could for the house.

My world was no longer safe. One sentence had brought my imaginary fortress to the ground, and I was left hiding amongst the rubble. I couldn't bring myself to tell Mags about Finnick. The idea of telling her that I had runaway was too painful, so I burrowed in as deep as I could, using excuses like dusting and airing rooms that hadn't been used in years. The morning after being caught, I had Mags remove all of my sisters' pictures and personal items from the vanities and walls. It was easier to forget who had once slept in these beds and worn the dresses in the wardrobes that way. I kept insisting that there was a stale smell to the whole house—which was true enough—and that I simply couldn't abide it for another moment. Not for a solitary second did I imagine that she believed me, but Mags didn't push at me for once. She merely did as I'd asked and kept her grumbling to herself.

Three days passed before I saw Finnick again. I had taken to doing my watering and weeding before the sun was even a sliver of silver in the sky and given up on any daylight or evening time in the garden. It didn't even matter to me that I no longer saw my beloved Matthew—only that no one saw me. I was upstairs scrubbing at the windows with vinegar water when I spotted a form standing alongside the garden wall. The built-up grime obscured my view but I instantly knew who it was. I resisted the silly urge to hide and forced myself to scrub harder. He may have stolen my garden from me, but I refused to let him have my house. After a minute's work, I could see him clearly—not that I wanted to see him. It didn't seem like he was doing much of anything other than simply standing there, and I was suddenly very curious as to why. I watched for a few more minutes before he turned and went down the walk, disappearing around the other side of the house. In annoyance, I tossed my damp, crumpled up newspaper and let out a growl.

“And just what have you to be fussin' about, girl? I'm the one who dern near collapsed on the stairs,” Mags huffed as she struggled to pick up the paper.

“Nothing, Mags. I'm sorry,” I said, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I'm just mad at myself for letting this house get so dirty.”

It was a reasonable sounding lie, but she only snorted.

“I guess I never really thought about how much work it was to keep this place clean when the maids were the ones doing it,” I murmured.

“Dirt dearly loves an uninhabited room,” she agreed. Mags swiped an arthritis bent finger across the nightstand. “Ye've scrubbed all of the rooms up here clean but one. Does that mean you'll be seein' to it as well?”

I frowned. “Don't be ridiculous. You know I won't go in there.”

“And I didn't think you'd come in here either, but so you did,” she pointed out with an arched brow.

“I think this is enough for now,” I replied. “The house smells much better already.”

“And does this mean you'll be back to your pretty posies?”

I couldn't help looking at the house next door. “I just don't know.”

“The lad feels terrible about scarin’ you, you know,” Mags told me, following my gaze. I opened my mouth to deny knowing what she was talking about, but she raise a wrinkled hand. “And before you go on spoutin' lies, I already spoke to the young man. He came in whilst Mrs. Paylor and I were sharin' a pot o’ tea yesterday, and asked about the bairns next door—if he had frightened one o' them out o' their wits.”.

“Did you tell him there were no children in this house, only one mad woman?” I asked, feeling a coldness rising in my gut. Suddenly, it mattered what Finnick might think of me, but I couldn't place the reason why.

“Ach, ye aren't mad! Only a wee bit frightened,” she proclaimed staunchly in her thick brogue. “And that's exactly what I told young Mr. O'Dair.”

I rolled my eyes. “And I'm certain that he believed you.”

“As it so happens, he did,” Mags stated, drawing herself up to her full height. “He said that he knows what it's like to be adrift, and that he would dearly love to apologize to you in person. Said he'd wait out by the garden fence for a while every day after his lessons with Mr. Mellark—if you've a mind to talk to him, that is.”

I could already tell from the look in her eyes that she had been charmed by the man, but flimsy words did nothing to make me want to step outside my door. It would take more than a glib tongue to convince me that he meant to do anything more than assuage his conscience for sending a mad woman into a fit. Finnick O'Dair may be a nice enough fellow, but I doubted he'd follow through.

“I doubt he'll be there in another two days,” I snorted, brushing by Mags.

But he was.

A week passed and every day, I would peek outside the window at precisely five-thirty and see him standing there. He stood there very patiently, not fidgeting nor drumming his fingers, for exactly half an hour then turned on his heel and left. At first, I would watch from the library window—where I had the best view—and bite at my fingernails while Mags shook her head at me and muttered to herself. It didn't make sense to me that he was still there. Mr. O'Dair didn't know me. Why was he so adamant about apologizing to me in person when he knew that I was a shut-in? I couldn't understand him. I guess it was curiosity that finally pulled me outside.

Exactly nine days after I had run away from him, I tiptoed down the path to the garden wall just before five-thirty. I stood there waiting for him to arrive with a storm brewing in my gut. I wasn't sure I had it me to speak to him, but as I watched him make his way down the now familiar path without his cane, I felt a sudden surge of courage.

“You didn't have to come here every day,” I murmured quietly without any preamble.

He looked a bit startled by my sudden appearance, and it made him seem very human all at once. I fleetingly wondered if his blindness made him feel as vulnerable as I did, but as fast as his surprise had come, it passed only to be replaced that cock-sure grin I remembered.

“It's lovely to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Cresta,” he said, ignoring my rudeness. He took a few more steps toward the fence, stopping mere inches from the ornately wrought iron that separated the gardens. “My name is Finnick O'Dair. I've been working with Mr. Mellark next door.”

“I know who you are,” I whispered.

“I'm also the horse's rear who thought it might be fun to tease the youngster spying on me when I first arrived,” he continued on, looking contrite for the first time. “I do apologize for my rudeness.”

“Apology accepted. Now you don't have to wait outside every day.”

“And what if I want to visit a new found friend?” he asked, raising a brow.

I sighed and forced myself to remain where I was even though every instinct inside of me was telling me to run. “You don't have to do this, you know?”

“Do what?”

“Try to befriend the crazy woman that you startled out of some sense of pity,” I supplied, letting the rush of anger in my gut push me ahead. “I don't need your Christian charity.”

For an instant, his eyes opened wide and I was greeted by an intense shade of green that I hadn't known existed. I was so distracted by the unexpected glimpse of his eyes that I almost missed the darkening of his features. “Sense of pity? I assure you that there are thousands—maybe even millions—of people who deserve pity more than you do. Why in God's name do you think I would pity you?”

“You're obviously the sympathetic sort,” I managed to mumble, taking an unconscious step back.

“There is a world of difference between sympathy and empathy, love. Someday, I hope you’ll understand the difference.” He smiled sadly and gave a small bow. “Until then, have a lovely life, Miss Cresta.”

I watched him walk away without a word. There was an ache in my chest that I couldn't place as I watched him go. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that a tiny part of my heart was breaking.

Finnick didn't stand out in the garden after that. Though I didn't watch him the way that I did Matthew, if I happened to be looking out of the window that faced the street, I could catch a glimpse of him getting into the Mellark's car in the late afternoon. Every time I saw him I felt a hot ball of regret lodge in my throat. He had offered me a kindness, and I had allowed my cowardice chase him off. At the time, it seemed I had ruined the only chance to make a new friend that I would ever have. It wasn't until a conversation with Mags that I realized that I did actually have a way to make amends.

As usual, Mags was going on about all the things Mrs. Paylor had told her that morning over their daily cup of tea. I don't remember what it was she had been telling me, but it occurred to me just then that I could have Mags relay a message to Finnick the way he had to me. The idea was exciting and terrifying at the same time. I hadn't reached out to anyone in so long that it seemed a daunting task to even get my tongue to form the words to ask. It took time, but I managed.

The next afternoon, I found myself waiting by the fence anxiously. I idly wondered if Finnick had felt nervous at all when he was waiting for me. Somehow, I didn't think that he had. He seemed too composed, too sure to ever know the kind of turmoil that was raging inside of me. I would have given anything just then for an ounce of his certainty. When he appeared on the stones, I finally felt myself let out the breath that I had been holding.

“Hello,” I said softly. “I wasn't sure you'd come today.”

“I was always told it was a lady's prerogative to leave a gentleman waiting and not the other way around,” he replied with a guarded smile.

“I'm sorry,” I blurted out, “About everything.”

“Well, then, I suppose that we're even now.” Though his words were friendly enough, I could tell that there was some reluctance in him.

“Yes, we are,” I agreed. “I was hoping that your offer was still open.”

“My offer?”

“To become friends.”

Finnick's smile widened. “Of course it is.”

I had thought out several endings to this conversation, but to be honest, I had thought it would actually _end_ with a declaration of friendship. I had expected him to simply leave once we had made amends—not to stand there smiling, looking as though he were waiting for me to say something. My mind was quite blank at the moment and I couldn't think of anything to say with any real weight to it. “Mr. Mellark's roses are quite lovely this year,” I murmured while staring at a pink bloom near Finnick's face.

“They smell lovely,” he agreed.

“They do indeed! There is simply nothing like opening a window and letting the scent in. In fact, I...” I stopped suddenly when I realized why he had commented on the roses' scent and not their beauty. Heat rushed to my cheeks and all of my hard won composure was suddenly gone. “I am terribly sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

Finnick cocked his head to the side. “Why? You only mentioned that you were enjoying the roses this year, and I agreed. Why should you enjoy them any less or refrain from commenting on them just because I experience the roses differently than you do?”

“I'm not sure,” I answered softly. “It doesn't bother you when people make comments about things they see?”

“Not in the least. In fact, those moments when people forget that I'm blind like you just did are some of my favorites. It means that they aren't thinking about me as anything less than whole, and I instantly like them more for it,” he explained.

I smiled with relief. “Well, then balancing out all of the bad, I suppose you can tolerate me.”

“I'm sure that given the chance, I will come to do a lot more than tolerate you, Miss Cresta.” His grin suddenly became wolfish and his eyes opened farther, revealing a bit beautiful green. I recognized it for what it was just then. He was flirting with me, and the idea of it sent waves through me. Even before the accident, no one had really ever flirted with me before. Gentlemen had always preferred my more voluptuous and mature sisters.

“Call me Annie,” I told him, hoping that my first name would sound less appealing rolling off his tongue.

“Annie,” he repeated, proving my hopes futile. 

I drew my gaze to the house behind him and thought quickly. “I had meant to ask earlier—how is the younger Mr. Mellark progressing?”

 

“Well enough,” he replied, seemingly catching on to my need for space. “He has a long road ahead of him, but he is determined so I don't doubt he'll come out of it all right.”

 

“What exactly is it that you teach him? I imagine that there a great many things that you have achieved that he will not be able to,” I commented. I hadn't really given Peter Mellark much thought before that moment, and it only then occurred to me that without his legs and sight he must be terribly limited.

 

Finnick shrugged. “Mr. Mellark is a quick study. He's well on his way towards having the basics of braille down, and we've devised an effective way for him to move fairly freely in his chair—actually, his wife was more key to that than I was. The thing is, though, that until he really tries, we will never know what is and what isn't possible for him. He controls more of his own destiny than most people will ever imagine.”

 

“And you are in control of yours,” I said enviously.

 

“Who else would be? Aren't you in charge of your own?” He laughed like the answer should have been obvious, but it was far more complicated than it seemed. I hadn't felt in control of my destiny since that fateful night.

 

“I should go,” I lied. There was something about Finnick's bravado that made me ashamed of my cowardice. The feeling wasn't at all unlike standing next to a queen wearing the finest ball gown while you were dressed in the poorest rags.

 

“Will I see you again tomorrow?” he asked. He sounded hopeful, but I didn't know why. I still couldn't fathom why a man like Finnick would want to waste his time talking to me through a garden fence.

 

“You will,” I replied, unable to demure.

 

As I watched him walk away that day, I felt like I was drowning again, but this time the waters were far from cold. I think even then I knew that Finnick would either be the end of me or the beginning of something beautiful. I just hoped that I had the courage to find out what.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
